Cerulean Hues
by CrashCat
Summary: It's 2085, after the Aparoid Wars. Lylat broke out into a war with humanity, a force that has been conquering the cosmos, species by species, for any reason that the public would swallow. Now Krystal, in an attempt to aid her people, has become a POW...


There were bodies strewn all over the place, each arm and leg pointing at a nearby corpse as if the dead were playing some kind of blame-game amongst themselves. The place was a room, a dank, shabby room, the floor consisting of worn floorboards and heavy accumulations of dirt and dust.

The room was rather bare. The walls were of cold steel and perhaps at one point a darker shade of gray. Although there were many desks, they were as worn as the floor and every single one identical. Of course, the logo of the police department hung on the wall, accompanied by a few posters for wanted "criminals" and several papers covered in names and numbers: the department betting pool.

The room was singular on this floor and was set on top of another floor. This bottom floor contained the jail cells somewhere in its premises, the residents of which were the subjects of the betting pool: who would the policemen be able to break first? The intent was not to break them physically, although it sometimes helped the process.

There were bodies strewn all over the place, and there was naught a single living soul in the room, save for one. One side of the room was lined with windows, and it was next to one of these that a man sat crouched, a long and large rifle with a telescopic sight attached to its top held gingerly in his hands.

The man was casually dressed, to blend in well with the people perusing the town square outside the window. Blue denim pants, a white cotton shirt, and a gray, hooded, cloth jacket made his look, all items that wouldn't be noticed or remembered. It was just as well; the officers on the first floor barely noticed him as he entered the building.

The man took a large thick bullet from an ammunition container on the floor next to him. He slid the golden colored rod into the rifle in a practiced motion and then cocked the gun. Lowering the barrel, he stuck it just outside the window, not quite enough for anyone to notice. With his right hand around the trigger, he supported the gun with his left, the elbow of which rested on one of his crouched knees.

The take down of the place was almost a textbook-perfect operation. The town was thrown together so quickly that all of the buildings were of a generic design; he could into the grocery store next door and figure out the entire layout of the police station. Of course neither the station nor their occupants were his targets; it was simply a perfect alignment of circumstances. The station had a clear vantage point of where his target would be, 400 meters across the square, slightly blocked by the fountains that were situated in the middle of it. And taking out the station gave him a clear exit; after making the shot, the townspeople would all call for emergency services. He had already put the lines on standby and recorded a message stating that all the phones were busy.

But was it worth ending so many lives just for the perfect opportunity to end yet another? The man wouldn't dream of doing such a thing if it wasn't. He had heard the stories, read the classified materials, observed the officers themselves: corrupt bastards all of them. He felt sorry for the inmates, most if not all, captive for faulty charges. He would release them later if he had time, only after perusing their records and making sure their arrests were illegitimate.

Following the entry, it took roughly 8 seconds to clear the receptions area. The men guarding the jail area didn't know what hit them when they ran in. The place was so badly designed; it was merely child's play to hide in their blind spots before taking them out. He had left one alive, though: a young lieutenant just fresh from the academy. He hadn't yet adopted the corrupt officers' lifestyle but was quick in the transition. The man had simply knocked the young lieutenant out, shooting his shoulder to keep things safe.

The officers didn't even get a shot out, the man's plan all along. He had entered with a silenced gun so as not to alarm the people outside. The group amassed upstairs, therefore, didn't hear him as he leveled the first floor, ascended the stairs, and approached the room he was now in. He didn't even have to enter.

"Such bad design," the man thought shaking his head. He could simply peek into one corner of the room from the outside and then "cut the pie", or turn about the center of the doorway as he quickly double-tapped each of the policemen with his pistol without ever exposing himself fully to any one of them. He had them all on the floor before the last one could even remove his gun from its holster.

The man now leaned in and looked through the sight, searching the square for his target. He was right where he was supposed to be, under an overhang of a building directly across from the station. Dressed in the long brown coat he usually wore, the target walked out from under the overhang to reveal his face: a fat, disgusting, bearded, pus of a mug. The man at the window thought he could see the greed and evil of his deed engraving the wrinkles into his forehead and cheeks. Alabaster Kinns Smar: slave trader and, indirectly, a dealer of hard drugs. The man with the rifle was surprised that Smar hadn't brought any of his merchandise with him today, drugs or otherwise, although now he wouldn't have to wait for him to leave.

The man now prepared himself for the shot. The target, which was now walking along the overhang, would be dead as soon as he stopped. But as he followed Alabaster with the rifle sights, he thought he saw a glint of blue at the corner of the scope. He immediately swung the rifle back for a second look.

A spot of blue just appearing from under the overhang. A tail.

The man looked up from the rifle, staring out at the square, and then looked back into the scope, just to make sure. The man looked back up, gazing at the square again. He wasn't trying to see the spot of blue with eyes unaided by the scope; he was much too far away for that. He was, instead, contemplating the situation, trying to come to a decision.

He knew, though, that the choice had been made as soon he had seen that tail. He wouldn't do it. He couldn't, not when he knew what would happen once he killed the trader. No innocent life was worth the end of an evil one. Except maybe for his.

Definitely his.

He pulled the gun back in from the window and lowered the barrel to the floor. Pulling the hood off his head, the man rubbed a hand through his hair and sighed. Standing up, he placed the rifle back into the gun closet where he had found it (why use your own weapons when the enemy can provide them for you?). Then, taking off his hooded jacket, he dropped it on the floor and stomped on it a few times. Then he slid his hands across the floor and rubbed them on his jeans, on his cheeks, on his forehead. He slipped back into the jacket and pulled the hood back over his head as he climbed down the stairs.

As he walked through the receptions area, the young lieutenant made a noise halfway between a moan and gurgle.

"Oh, shut up, you fucking pussy," said the man, giving the lieutenant a swift kick to the head as he walked past him. "Get a real job, why don't you?"

The man pulled the hood farther over his head, casting a shadow over his eyes. Then he walked out the front door.


End file.
